In the Heart of the Forest
by AliceStaresAtStars
Summary: Twice every year Arthur is absent and uncontactable. A group of nations attempt to find out why, but inadvertently discover a long-kept secret that unalterably changes their lives. Fantasy and canonverse combined! Some FrEng, RomaniEng, ScotEng, eventual PruDen AmeriCana. NOTE: Contains info about If You'd Let Me updates. Either read AN here or go to my profile. T for language.
1. Prologue

**This is my latest multichapter fic. It's set in the canonverse, i.e. the non-OC's are countries (and yes there will be minor OC's as plot devices, may have an OC as a fairly major bad guy later, but no country-OC romance. I genuinely cannot stand those fics, it's like a Mary-Sue infestation.)**

**If you're reading If You'd Let Me, then here's my explanation on the lack of updates.**

Stories:

_If You'd Let Me_- **Unfortunately, I am having a little trouble with this one, so I will not be able to update this week. I have two chapters in the works but writer's block is a bitch, so probably won't be finished until next week at the earliest. Sorry! (Although there will be some loose ends tied up, so it should be worth the wait. Don't give up on me!)**

_**New**_- _Au Cœur de la Fôret_- **It's a canon/fantasy crossover, and it has an England related love triangle**_**and**_**some ScotEng. That's all I'm saying. I love fantasy, I grew up on Eragon, Artemis Fowl (which sort of inspired this in a way), Chronicles of Ancient Darkness etc. I've wanted to write one for ages. I will try from now on to update either this or IYLM weekly from now on. The prologue goes up on Saturday.**

_**New -**__Please Don't Send Me Roses_ - **One-, two- or three-shot depending on how the idea takes me. England x the World. Will be up on Sunday.**

**So I am well and truly stuck IYLM-wise. Also, I have a lot of GCSE stuff going on right now, and thus I haven't got the time to battle on through with one story at a time. I will update one of my multichapters (i.e. IYLM or ACdlF) weekly, and if I can't I will at least put up a conciliatory short story to keep the muscles flexed as it were, more for me than you but still. That's what's going on. But keep an eye out, I'm not done with it!**

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_Prologue_

Three days before the summer solstice. It is pure night, and utterly silent with it. The sort of night where if you didn't know better, you might think the whole world had simultaneously died. There is no light from the moon, although it is clear – the moon is new, so there is nothing but the pale glow of a million stars dusting the landscape pale grey.

A figure stands at the edge of a dark wood, the trees three times the height of a man or more, the entrances blocked by brambles, untouched by man since prehistory; an oasis of ancient wilderness in a desert of quaint English fields and countryside. He is waiting for something. Someone.

He occasionally graces his lips with the cigarette perpetually in his leather gloved hand. At first glance he would appear normal looking, if of striking appearance. The wild, flaming red hair, glowing green eyes and prominent eyebrows are generally the things people notice first. He is also wearing a royal blue hooded cloak, darkening his features, in a style not widely used outside of plays and films in over seven hundred years. Fitting, considering his actual age. Were you to guess you might put him around twenty-seven, thirty at a push. But something about him seems old beyond his years, and if you fathomed that, you would be correct.

His attire and general air are not the only things odd or noteworthy about the man. Were you to remove his cloak, worn for more than just warmth, you might notice that his ears are a little larger than what you might expect considering his almost elfin but still strong and masculine face. If you were paying particular attention you might notice that beyond the pierced lobe the ear peaks at a distinct point, rather than curving off as usual. The point is so rounded as to be almost unnoticeable to the average observer, but nonetheless entirely there. You might also notice that his shoulder blades are considerably longer and sharper than most humans', poking through his shirt and brushing the back of his cloak, and his pupils seem to have a point of light in them, a little like a star in the centre of his eyes.

These diversions from the human form may not seem amazing, but they denoted something more than unusual in this man.

His head turns slowly to the left as he hears a sound inaudible to human ears coming from the direction of the small country lane at the end of the field that is the only connection to civilisation. There are few places like this is Britain anymore, it has been so effectively tamed.

He unsheathes from his belt a dagger polished and sharpened to the point where it cuts you to look at it. He pulls it from its silver embossed case and tosses it up and down in his hand, catching it by the point each time. It is a strange knife – handle and blade seem to have no visible join, despite being different materials. The handle is silver with writing – Old English – engraved around the bottom, and the rest is decorated with embossed Celtic knots. A triskellion is embossed right at what would be the top of the handle when the knife is upright. The blade itself is completely smooth and made of pure diamond, sharper than a razor and not a scratch on it. It gleams in the moonlight, an odd contrast to the handle's dullness. If you were feeling irrational, you might think the whole thing was glowing.

He does this for a minute, still looking left, before the quiet of the night is sliced in two by the ever-nearing roar of a motorbike. Another minute passes before the motorbike and its rider zoom into view at a speed that is unmistakeably above the speed limit. He is wearing a similar cloak to the first man's, only in emerald green, the silver ties glinting in the moonlight. Were you to look under the cloak's hood, you would find the same green eyes and prominent eyebrows as the first man, only in blond and set in a decidedly more feminine, delicate face. His face is also more youthful, looking no older than twenty-three. He has a similar air of years beyond apparent age, as it were, to the first one. You would also find his ears, eyes and shoulder blades to be in much the same state as the man anticipating him, if not worse.

He turns through an open gate in the hedgerow onto a path through an empty field leading to the woods, not quite wide enough to properly accommodate his motorbike, but enough to disguise its presence a little. He dumps it at the top of the field, covering the last fifty metres or so on foot. The flame-haired man has been watching him the whole time, silently tracking his movements blank-faced. The younger man meets his gaze, although neither face betrays any emotion. It is as close as they will come to a greeting. On closer inspection their eyes are slightly different shades of green; the elder's eyes could be called either toxic or neon, the younger's emerald or pine.

At the top of the field the younger man looks the other over, raising an eyebrow at the unusual variations on the human form. "I would ask how you plan to hide it if didn't know you wouldn't tell me."

The other just smiles.

The newcomer walks all the way to the older one, who is still throwing and catching the knife by its point. On the next throw, the second man grabs the knife by its point before the first one, yanking it away and holding his palm out for the sheath.

The elder chuckled, handing it over. "As quick as ever, Artie." There is a little affection in his voice, although the tone is teasing and sarcastic.

The second man – Artie or Arthur – has nothing but hate in his eyes for the other man, combined with unease bordering on fear. This is reflected in his tone when he practically spits, "Don't call me that. I don't see why you have to keep it. I can handle a knife, as you know perfectly well." The first man's smile turns dangerous and more serious.

"An' that's exactly why I keep it. Wouldnae want little Artie in charge of a dangerous weapon now, would we? Ye might go getting ideas." The answer is a little cryptic but the second man seems to understand. He replies unsmilingly, "You know me too well."

The first man's eyes gleam mischievously, and he smirks. He reaches out a hand to caress the other's cheek while adding, "Don't I just, Artie?" Arthur flinches at the touch, his eyes widening. His fear becomes ten times more obvious and he whispers "Don't touch me." His voice cracks a little and he clears his throat, his face steeling. "Give me the sheath, Alasdair. I don't want to spend any more time with you than is strictly necessary."

Alasdair removes his hand from where its thumb was rubbing circles on the smaller man's cheek. "Yoo're so mean ta me, Artie. I dinnae do this for many, ye ken. Yoo're ma favourite. I dinnae even make ye call me ma proper name."

Arthur looks bored, as if he's heard it all before. His voice is unrepentantly sarcastic. "I'm flattered. The sheath."

"Say please now, Artie, there's a good boy." They are now practically nose to nose, or would be is Alasdair wasn't a good five-and-a-half inches taller. Arthur doesn't blink, but looks him straight in the eye and answers, "No."

Alasdair leans down so their foreheads touch. If you weren't observant it might look like a touch between lovers. That would be if you didn't count the utter loathing in the younger's eyes, or the way he is clenching his fists, one around the handle of the knife. Or the positively malevolent gleam in the elder's eyes. He leans down further, so his breath strokes the blonde's ear and murmurs "No manners. I though we raised ye better." It takes all the strength in Arthur's body not to shiver.

Touching foreheads again, he tucks the sheath in Arthur's belt, cover's Arthur's knife hand with his (noticeably larger) hand, and moves the hand so the knife is sheathed. Arthur obligingly lets go of the knife. Alasdair does not let go of the hand. "Alas…" Arthur's voice is warning.

"C'mon, Artie. Where's ma reward? I look after ya precious knife for ye, go to the stupid fucking meetings in your place – "

Arthur interrupts. "I don't ask, and indeed don't want, you to look after my knife. It is in fact damned inconvenient. You love going to the 'stupid fucking meetings', that's why you stop anyone else going when I can't."

Alasdair keeps going regardless, his face hardening, his tone both sickly sweet and dangerous in a way that would rival Ivan for psychopathy, "And I'm so nice ta ye. Deliver ya knife personally, let ye call me ma human name, look after ye." Arthur snorts incredulously, but freezes when he sees the look on Alasdair's face. He is promptly terrified.

"Don't make this hard for me. Make this hard for me, and I'll make it hard for ye." He takes Arthur's chin in his hand. Arthur looks away, fists still clenched at his side. "It's not much ta ask now, is it?" Arthur does not answer, looking away blank faced, trembling slightly. Whether from rage or fear is hard to say. Alasdair looks annoyed and impatient, and decides to just take what he wants. He smashes their lips together, one hand on the small of the younger man's back and the other a little lower, dipping so he has no choice but to put his hands around the taller man's neck. The older of the pair bites down hard, not caring about the taste of blood in his mouth. He forces the other's mouth open and slips his tongue in.

At first Arthur freezes, completely tense, but the bite wakes him up and when his mouth is invaded he bites down hard, first on tongue then lips. Alasdair doesn't flinch but breaks away, still holding Arthur. He goes to Arthur's ear and moves his hand through his hair. He practically croons, "Ye're mine, Arthur. Always remember that." With that he releases Arthur, who stumbles two steps backwards. "Bastard." He hisses, hatred and fear evident on his face. Their mouths are both swollen and bloody, and both are panting a little. Arthur's hair is messier and his face is a little flushed. He looks debauched.

Alasdair has a smug air about him, and is a little turned on despite the state of his mouth and tongue. A little blood trickles down from the side of his mouth. He purrs, "Should be enough to tide me over until we meet again." His eyes spark and he directs a predatory grin at Arthur. Arthur is in too much of a state not to shudder.

Alasdair has his usual smirk on, now. He raises his hood, nods at Arthur and says. "Until next time." He turns and glides into the forest, seeming to melt into it once he is beyond the first line of trees.

Arthur watches him leave, slightly shell-shocked. He shakes his head, trying to clear it before turning back into the field. He mounts his motorbike speeds off into the night, cape flapping behind him.

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**Thank you for reading.**

**ASAS xx**


	2. I

**Hey,**

**I mean no offence to German people in this chapter! My thing is that Scotland hardly ever goes to meetings, so his views of the countries haven't changed much since the Second World War, or the Cold War at the most.**

**France taking England's virginity is just my HC. No matter whom he ends up with later on, I think they spent too much time together as teenagers for that not to be the case.**

**Romania comes in next chapter as a main character; he was absolutely ace to write, my favourite character to write so far.**

**Read and review!**

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**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

_In the Heart of the Woods_

**Pairings:**FrEng, RomaniEng, ScotEng (sort of), AmeriCana and PruDen/DenPru eventually, possibly Past!ScotFr

**Genre: **Fantasy/Drama, really. There will be fae. Of course, there will be romance chucked in, because what would be the point otherwise?

**Universe: **Canon!Verse with a twist

**WARNINGS: **Language, possibly non/dub-con in later chapters, and also possibly lemon if I ever get the ability to write it

**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

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..:.:.:.]**I**[.:.:.:..

Germany walked into the meeting room and immediately wanted to turn around and walk back out again. He expected England to be there as usual, yelling at France or preparing his speech. Instead he was greeted with toxic green eyes below enormous ginger eyebrows and a harsh smirk directed at him through a smoky haze. France was indeed there, but he was sitting down and staring at the table, obviously trying very hard not to be noticed by the ginger man currently sitting in Germany's seat with his legs on the desk. Germany realised it was that time of year again. England had taken his unexplained biannual leave of absence and had sent Scotland in his place. "_Danke schön__, _England." Germany muttered under his breath.

The look on Germany's face as he walked in was priceless, Scotland thought. He had already wiped the smug smirk off of the French pervert's face, and was enjoying continually scaring the shit out of him. Serves him right for perving on his baby brother. (Scotland adored teasing England, but was very protective of him. He grew incredibly angry at the looks France would often give England, let alone the bloody perverted flirtatious teasing. Combined with the fact that Scotland had found out from – bullied out of – England that France had taken his virginity. France had an enemy for life in Scotland, Auld Alliance or no. No one touched what Scotland saw as his.) The Nazi bastard's face when he saw him was the funniest thing he'd seen all week in Scotland's opinion. It was a mixture of hatred, disappointment, resignation and sheer untainted dread, and it made Scotland want to collapse laughing. But that would have defeated his purpose, so he just sneered. "Pleasure ta see ye too, Nazi bastard." He watched Germany's fists clench, and was pretty sure a vein was going in his eye._ Let's see if we can give him a nervous breakdown by the end of the meeting._

"Please remove yourself from my seat, _Schottland._" Germany's voice was strained, and pretty near to a snarl.

"Of course, _Herr Führer__._" Germany was now very red in the face and Scotland's smirk looked near feral._ I didn't think he'd break this easily. _And then, _He and England are rather alike, the red faced bampots. Of course England has less control of his temper, and the balls to actually punch me. _He flopped down in England's chair, but not before stubbing out his cigarette on Germany's coat and dropping it on the floor.

"I am not picking that up, _Schottland_. And you had better buy me a new suit jacket." Germany had apparently succeeded in getting a handle on himself as his face was a lot less red and he looked resigned more than angry. Scotland put this down to having to deal with Prussia and by extension both the Bad Touch and Fail Brothers Trios on a regular basis (Scotland had been out drinking with his brother and fellow FBT members and promptly renamed them the Extremely Pissed Dickheads – England, Prussia, and Denmark. It was with them that the now notorious Nelson's Column Incident – with a capital I – happened. But that's quite another story.) _Breaking him may be harder than I thought. _He lit another cigarette. Blew a smoke ring pensively.

"Looks like it's staying on the floor, then. And England'll get ye a new suit. Probably lick ya shoes clean, tae, if ye ask him." Scotland was annoyed at England for bowing to Germany just because he held the cards economically in Europe. He had asked England, or more goaded him, about it. "What happened tae integrity, ma dear brother?" England to his surprise didn't get angry, just looked at him and replied dryly and with a hint of bitterness, "Integrity isn't in the political dictionary, brother."

Germany gave up trying to control him after the shoe-licking comment, and decided to just ignore him. He marched over to his place and started looking through his notes. _Aww, spoil my fun why don't you? _Scotland didn't take his eyes off the German, or the smirk off his face. He noted with glee that the nerve in his forehead had started to twitch. Sadly, Scotland realised, Germany would not snap easily. And while he loved a challenge, it was much more fun freaking out the Italies. After all, if he couldn't get the idiot Roman bastard who took his brother and killed his dear mother, Britannia, he could at least emotionally and psychologically torment his spawn.

"_Mon Cher Allemagne__, _ignore him. HHHhhe is nothing but an attention whore." France chose this moment, perhaps unwisely, to pipe up, being noticeably absent from the conversation before this point. Scotland turned his head towards France, and his smug smirk twisted into a sneer. France glared back defiantly.

"Better an attention whore than a plain old whore, eh, France?" He leered at the French nation. Between the comment and the glare, France's face seemed to crumple, his resolve crumbled and he went back to staring at the table glumly. Germany looked on amazed – no-one could render the French nation silent like that. Certainly not England.

A few more nations were in the room, now, though most chose to wait outside in the lounge before entering the international mad hatter's tea party commonly known as the world meeting. (England often commented that all it needed was for someone to yell "Change places!" every so often and then you really couldn't tell the difference.) Normally the people who came in early were the ones delivering speeches, England, France (although he only came to bug England), Germany and sometimes Italy followed Germany or Russia came to hide from Belarus. And of course, Scotland was early when he showed up, as he delighted in watching people's faces when they realised that he was there, ready to bring even more anarchy to the mad house.

Germany's face was grim as he came to the realisation that he would have to deal with Scotland's own unique brand of disruption. At least England only did two annoying things – yelling at France and yelling at America. Well, three if you count generally being sarky and condescending but Germany hardly noticed that anymore and he did it to everyone anyway. Scotland was a whole different ballgame. He also yelled at France and America, America with particular venom, Germany noticed. However, it wasn't just them. He yelled at Ireland, he yelled at Canada (he was one of the only people who noticed Canada, being his first coloniser), he yelled at Germany (he was the only one who dared to call him Nazi bastard; it took a lot of willpower to avoid punching the haggis-eating _arschloch_in the face) and he seemed to have one hell of a grudge against the Italy brothers for a reason no-one could work out.

* * *

It was time to start the meeting. It began mostly as usual. America was late and ran in with about seven hamburgers proclaiming "Never fear, the hero is here! Hahahahaha!" Scotland instead of England told him to "Sit the fuck down and stop laughing like idiot. You're late, so shut the fuck up, you arrogant arsehole, the world doesn't revolve around you. And if you say you're the hero one more time I'm going to punch your fucking face in, brat." There was a moment of tension.

"Where's England?"

"Can't make it, brat. What's it ta ye where ma brother is?"

"I just want to make sure he's ok, cuz I'm th-"

"Finish that sentence and I'll rearrange ya bloody face." His tone was bloodthirsty and deadly serious; it seemed even America could tell Scotland wasn't joking and sloped to his seat with his metaphorical tail between his legs. He proceeded to mutter to the people next to him about "Stupid Iggy" and "Stupid Scottish asshole" among other things. The meeting began pretty much as usual, but slowly deteriorated into chaos.

"Potato bastard! Stop fantasising about wurst and tell the scary fucking ginger bastard to stop staring at me like that! He's freaking me out! I think _fratello_ Veneziano's going to have a heart attack if the kilt bastard doesn't stop giving him evils! He keeps coming up behind us and blowing smoke in our faces! If you're so fucking macho, macho potato eater, tell him to fucking stop it! _Eep!_" Germany's hands went to his temples as Romano ranted in his ear because Scotland seemed to be doing everything in his power to freak the Italies out. Romano was bent slightly behind Germany's chair and ducked behind it at the end of his hissed tirade as Scotland turned his attention from North to South. North Italy used this opportunity to hide under the desk, although it was fairly obvious where he was because of the shaking table.

Germany tried to keep the meeting under control, but on top of the usual ("…And we can build a giant wall to keep out world hunger, and it can have the Stars and Stripes on it cos I'm the hero!" "_Kolkolkol_… that does not sound like a good idea, Comrade _Amerika__._ And you had better not stand on this wall of yours, hamburger eating fatass, or you will crush it, _da_?" "Says you, fatass commie dick!" "Germany! Germany! Get America and Russia to stop fighting, it's scary!" "_Mon cher Italie__, _do not worry, _ton grand frère France_will protect you! Now come and sit on my lap, _onhonhonhon…" _"Snail pervert, stay away from my _fratello_!" etc.) Scotland had just tripped up Estonia and Latvia, glared at Lithuania, and started an argument with Russia about whether it was OK for him to bully the Baltics.

"Comrade Scotland, I do not know if you are aware, but the Baltics are my territory, _da__?_" Russia's voice was, as ever, musical with a threatening undertone to it. His face remained childish and smiling, contrasting weirdly with his words.

"Oh, aye?" Scotland's tone was sarcastic and defiant. He was one of the few nations who didn't openly show fear in front of Russia. England was another, although this owed more to pride than to actual lack of fear. Scotland was just pig-headed, and generally refused to give a shit.

"_Da__."_

"What if I dinnae give a damn about ya fucking territory? Ya don't own them anymore."

Scotland's voice was dripping with rebellion, daring Russia to respond.

"Your head is your territory, _da_?" Apparently this was not a rhetorical question, or at least was one Scotland decided to answer.

"I dinnae really count body parts as territory. But it belongs to me. Och, but you're a fucking nutty Russian, so it's probably all the same to ye." A smirk lit up Scotland's face, and Russia's smile became even wider.

"Well if my pipe was to smash into your head, you would not appreciate it, _da_? It is the same with the Baltics. I am the only one to mess with them, so you leave them alone and my pipe will leave your head alone, _da_?"

"Nah. Ya crazy Russian logic is fucked up, ye bloody bampot. I jus' tripped them up, so in return in your example, ye'd have to trip up ma head. And if ye can manage that ye must be a fucking genius."

"_Kolkolkol…_"

The meeting now resembled a pub brawl more than anything else. Russia had his pipe in line at Scotland's head, and Scotland was laughing in his face. Italy South had stopped yelling at Germany and gone to hide behind Spain, who looked delighted with the situation; Italy North was still under the table and it looked as if France had joined him, although whether because of Scotland was another issue. America was arguing with South Korea (over the claim that "Heroes originated in Korea, da-ze!"), and Germany distinctly agreed with China, who remarked to Japan "I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Opium." Japan remained poker faced and tactfully added "_Hai_, I also think _Igirisu-san_ makes for a more orderly meeting." To which China added "He may be an arrogant idiot who thinks he's always right, but at least he doesn't deliberately scare the shit out of everyone. We've already got Russia for that." Japan looked distinctly uncomfortable now. "Ah, _hai_."

Then Russia got distracted by Lithuania who was trying to prevent avoidable homicide, so Scotland threw a pen at Greece and promptly blamed it on Turkey. All hell broke loose.

* * *

It was just another Solstice Meeting.

True to form, England was inexplicably and without warning or explanation, absent from this particular world meeting. The Summer Solstice was almost upon the world, and as ever England was missing from the meeting nearest to it.

Every year for the past sixty-odd years the meetings had been running, England – who had an otherwise spotless record of attendance – would mysteriously not show up to the meetings nearest the Winter and Summer Solstice. At these meetings instead of a wild-blonde-haired, green eyed, enormous eyebrow-ed self-proclaimed gentleman, the world would suffer the company of a ginger-haired tobacco fiend who would shame the Netherlands in his consumption of the stuff. It was anyone's guess as to why England had chosen Scotland to replace him over the considerably pleasanter and less trouble-making Wales, although those who knew the pair suspected bullying or blackmail. (Blackmail material concerning England wasn't hard to come across considering his fondness for rum and his inability to handle it. France did a fine line in photos and videos of England in the naked waiter costume, England dancing on tables at the Ritz, England shinning up Nelson's column with his pants on his head (the legendary Nelson's Column Incident) and many more. It was common knowledge that if you got a drop of whiskey down his through he'd fall flat on his face and start singing about tiny goblins, _à la _Blackadder.)

Germany, who up until the Greco-Turkish pen incident had been banging his head on the desk quietly, finally decided enough was enough. "**Everybody shut up! Stop fighting! **_**Griechenland, Schottland**_** threw the pen at you, stop trying to punch **_**Türkei**_** in the face! **_**Scheiβe**__**, **_**can we all not just act like semi-civilised adults instead of drunken children**-"

"Ever gotten a child drunk, _Allemagne_?" smirked France, unwisely.

"**Shut the hell up, **_**Frankreich**_**! **_**Mein Gott!**_** This is a meeting! It's not a playground, so sit down, let people speak and don't shout out. And for God's sake act your age!**" At this point, Germany turned to Scotland. **"As of today, you are banned from meetings! Where in the name of holy hell is your brother?" **

Murmurs began to swell to something of a hubbub as nations expressed their interest in the location of the missing Brit. Scotland took his time answering the question, despite the obvious interest. He took a drag of his cigarette, returned his feet to their previous location on the desk and exhaled loudly. "How would I know where England is? Ah just know that every Solstice, I have to go to these bloody pointless multinational freak shows instead of ma dear brother." His mocking tone clearly implied he knew more than he was letting on, arousing the interest of every country who was more than just curious. Except America, who just looked disappointed, obviously assuming the words were more important than the tone. "Oh, and ye cannae do that, Nazi bastard." Germany's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Oh really? Well, this is a democratic organisation, so! All those in favour of _Schottland_ being banned from meetings, raise your hand!" Germany's face was triumphant as a sea of hands greeted Scotland. However his face drooped a little as he realised Scotland's smirk hadn't disappeared at all. On the contrary, he was full on grinning, although the mockery never left his face.

"Ah, but who exactly will represent the United Kingdom?" Scotland asked, challengingly.

"Wales-" Germany offered, but was quickly interrupted.

"-is missing at this time of year, also." Germany frowned.

"Why?"

"Dunno." Germany's frown deepened, but he did not question him further.

"_Nordirland_ – " He was again interrupted, this time by a derisive snort.

"Oh, sure, ye can invite NI. If ye want the meeting ta turn into a mass homicide." Germany was by this point back to being incredibly annoyed.

"Explain." His tone was stern.

"Putting Northern Ireland and Ireland in a room together for three hours solid is like locking Greece and Turkey in an interactive, pick-up-and-use 'Weapons Through the Ages' exhibition and telling each that Japan prefers the other." He continued, ignoring the scowls, or in Japan's case, looks, he got from the mentioned parties. "Bound ta end in disaster, murder, and good fucking luck ta ye getting the bloodstains out of the carpet." He finished with a triumphant Cheshire-cat grin.

Germany's face was the picture of defeat.

"So. It looks like ye're stuck with me." This being said, Scotland turned on his heel and swaggered out of the meeting room's double doors, smoke from his freshly lit cigarette trailing behind him.

* * *

France was worried about England. He would of course _die before admitting I care for that __rosbif__ idiot whose taste in fashion was as good as it was in food: bad to say the least, stupid __sourcils__, contradicting every – I am getting side-tracked._ The point was, to miss two meetings in a year was not unusual. To miss the same two meetings in a year, every year for several years is somewhat bizarre. To miss the same two meetings every year for seventy-two years is beyond bizarre and into the realms of getting the DGSE to find out what the hell is going on. In France's opinion, anyway. The point was, it was a mystery, and if France loved one thing (below sex, wine and food in that order, anyway) it was mysteries.

France knew he wasn't the only one who noticed the regular absence, not by a long way. He also knew that he wasn't the only one concerned, so he figured he would probably be able to get quite a few people to help him find England, or at least find out what he was doing – or what had happened to him. He knew he could get America and Canada involved, although he didn't know how useful the American would be and he certainly didn't want his _petit Mathieu_involved in the inevitably mental scheme. But they were both incredibly pig-headed, that is, tenacious when they wanted to be, so he doubted he would be able to stop either of them joining in. He knew Germany would want to know, if only to get find a way to get rid of Scotland, but whether he would get involved was debatable considering how 'proper' he considered himself to be, and how wussy he was about breaking rules. France snorted when he thought of this. Germany and England were so alike – both uptight in theory, but get them near their drink of choice and they went bat-shit crazy. France had heard from Prussia that Italy's ridiculous song wasn't lying about the whole 'downing a whole keg of beer and then busting it on somebody's head' thing, and England had notched up so many Incidents that France had enough blackmail material to last several hundred years. And provided England didn't stop drinking, probably always would.

France continued with the list of people who would probably want to help. Prussia and Denmark would definitely want in – they couldn't go out without their third drinking buddy because "People always think we're on a date!"

"And I would never go out with this unawesome-"

"Me unawesome! You're the unawesome one! And I would never go out with you!"

"I'm awesome! You're just jealous!"

"I'm not jealous, you're jealous - of my awesomeness."

Et cetera. He wished they would just fuck already and release the obvious UST because it was really getting on his nerves. (Bear in mind that where normal people see hatred/close friendship/casual banter, France sees sexual tension. He's special like that.) France thought the reason they really needed England was because otherwise conversation would just be that for hours, only getting progressively drunker and more violent. Obviously they cared for England, but France wondered how he put up with them. Oh, yeah, by getting completely smashed.

Beyond the few definites, France could only speculate. Wales was a certain no, as apparently he was also missing. The Oceanic duo lived too far away, ditto Japan, and India was perennially unhelpful with matters concerning England, as was much of the Commonwealth. The Italies wouldn't get involved – they were too scared of Scotland, and France doubted he could convince them with pasta like he usually did when he wanted something off them. Spain wouldn't join even as a favour to France – he hated England with a passion ever since the whole Armada thing (Spain can hold a grudge even better than England can, and that's really saying something.) No-one else convenient really had enough ties to England to want to get involved.

However, France was confident he would be able to gather enough people together to help him. Just to check he hadn't missed anyone else, and because it was the most convenient way of getting people he knew would join to come, he announced by e-mail that he was having a post-meeting conference entitled "Solving the English Mystery" with the subtitle "Or, how we can get rid of Scotland."

France was going to solve this. Detective Bonnefoy was on the case.

..:.:.:.]**I**[.:.:.:..


	3. II

**Looking over the chapters I realised you don't get any insight into Romania's actual thought's until III, but oh well. He's a bit here anyway.**

**If I was more cool I wouldn't bother to put read and review like a desperate concrit whore, but I'm not more cool. So. Read and review. Concrit appreciated.**

**Sigh.**

**ASAS xx**

* * *

**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

_In the Heart of the Woods_

**Pairings:**FrEng, RomaniEng, ScotEng (sort of), AmeriCana and PruDen/DenPru eventually, possibly Past!ScotFr

**Genre: **Fantasy/Drama, really. There will be fae. Of course, there will be romance chucked in, because what would be the point otherwise?

**Universe: **Canon!Verse with a twist

**WARNINGS: **Language, possibly non/dub-con in later chapters, and also possibly lemon if I ever get the ability to write it

**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

* * *

..:.:.:.]**II**[.:.:.:..

France was generally bored through the meeting, not having England there to flirt/argue/talk with. Not that he missed _rosbif__, _he was just infinitely preferable to Scotland. _Although his face is rather adorable when he blushes... _France snickered might hate the personality, but who was he to deny cuteness as and when he saw it? France smirked to himself. The only reason he came to meetings early, or on time at all, was to get the maximum time teasing England, although he often earned a bruise or two for his trouble. He remembered when England got that nasty cold. _He would be so cute if he just shut up for ten seconds. Oh, and didn't call me a 'bloody frog' constantly. Tch. _He managed to snatch some amusement hiding under the table with North Italy, occasionally giving him comforting hugs. Well, gropes, but the two are one and the same in France's opinion.

He didn't pay attention until Scotland and Germany's exchange at the end of the meeting. _Scotland definitely knows more than he's letting on. _Scotland had been voted out of meetings, and seemed to be taking it rather well. Or at least, his smirk never left his face.

It turned out he had an ace in the hole, anyway.

"Ah, but who exactly will represent the United Kingdom?" Scotland asked, challengingly. Scotland just seemed to emit obnoxious obstinacy. A slightly tense atmosphere pervaded the room. France looked up with interest at the cockiness; considering that numerous countries made up the UK it would surely be possible to find someone to replace England other than him. _Scotland must have some sort of strategy._ _That question might as well have been rhetorical. But if he wants to come to the meetings and can get England out of the way, why not do it all year round? _To France, none of this made any sense, particularly not why Scotland was there. _If these meetings are so 'bloody pointless' and you apparently hate them, why bother coming at all? The Scotland I know would sure as hell never do this as a favour to England._

"Wales-" Germany offered, but was quickly interrupted.

"-is missing at this time of year, also." _Not just England then. Scotland had better have one hell of an alibi. _

"Why?" Germany continued to question. _Why indeed?_

"Dunno." _Yes you do. _France wrote on a piece of paper 'Wales missing. Scotland knows about this also.'

"_Nordirland_ – " He was again interrupted, this time by a derisive snort.

"Oh, sure, you can invite Northern Ireland. If you want the meeting to turn into a mass homicide." Germany was by this point back to being incredibly annoyed. "Explain." His tone was stern.

"Putting North and Republic in a room together fer three hours solid is like locking Greece and Turkey in an interactive, pick-up-and-use 'Weapons Through the Ages' exhibition and telling each that Japan prefers the other." He continued, ignoring the scowls, or in Japan's case, looks, he got from the mentioned parties. "Bound ta end in disaster, murder, and good fucking luck ta ye getting the bloodstains out of the carpet." He finished with a triumphant Cheshire-cat grin. _No suspicion on that count. The rivalry between the two Irelands is legendary. But everything else…_

Germany's face was the picture of defeat. _How is it that Scotland has the ability to make the mice of men? _France had witnessed the most stubborn of people wither away under the toxic gaze.

"So. It looks like ya stuck with me." This being said, Scotland turned on his heel and swaggered out of the meeting room's double doors, smoke from his cigarette arcing and looping in the air behind him before dissipating like the man himself.

Scotland instantly became a priority in France's mind.

* * *

After the meeting, France waited for people to disperse for about ten minutes. After the time passed and nations drifted around like dust particles in a still room, he stood on the table and cleared his throat. "Excuse me! Could everyone not involved in my post-conference meeting please leave the meeting room." Nations looked round expectantly, and a couple of people left, but overall there were still about fifty nations in the room. France was surprised and somewhat annoyed. Most likely people were just curious as to what had happened, or wanted rid of Scotland, and with this many nations there was no way they would get anywhere near to a plan of action. No doubt it would just end up a mini replica of the previous meeting, and Germany would kill him if any more desks got broken.

France sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "_Attentión!_ Could anyone not actually willing to get involved in any plan that may arise as a result of this meeting please leave the meeting room?" A large crowd of nations immediately vacated the room at speed hearing that. Including France, and not counting Prussia, who not being allowed to come to meetings was yet to arrive, there were only seven nations present. These were France, Germany, America, Canada, Denmark, Norway (although Denmark might've had something to do with that) and oddly enough Romania. France knew not of a connection with England and was mystified as to why the man was attending.

And also slightly horrified. There was something, not quite tangible, about that man that set his teeth on edge. He made France more than a little nervous, something about the red eyes maybe? No, because he was good friends with Prussia. But that man… To France, he seemed to be one of the few nations who still had the ether of death around him. To France, he seemed to be one of the few who relished it. To France, he was one of the few people who were wholly terrifying.

"Ah, _Roumanie_, _mon cher_,_porquoi êtes-vous ici?_" France instinctively spoke French in his haste and received a glare from every nation in the room, particularly Romania. "_Franţa_, just because you believe French to be superior to every other language in the world, does not mean I can speak it. Please speak English at least." Normally with that sort of comment France would have gone off on a tangent about how French was the most beautiful language in the world, and anyone who couldn't speak it was an imbecile and a philistine, but Romania's stare was colder than Russia's, and France couldn't help but think that his irises were not dissimilar to blood. He swallowed, and mentally kicked himself for being so irrational.

"Ah, _oui, oui, bien sûr._" Romania's eyes narrowed and France's hair prickled as he felt the fight or flight instinct kick in. France ignored it and corrected himself hurriedly, "Euhm, that is, yes, of course. What I said before was, why are you here? I was not aware of you having any connection to _Angleterre ou Ecosse_, so what reason do you have for assisting us?"

"_Angliya_and I are friends. I am teaching him how not to make a complete mess of black magyk, although it is slow progress, I must admit. I am concerned he has got himself in trouble with it as he is most prone to. I do worry about him." France was baffled. England hadn't mentioned Romania since he was an enemy in the war, and frankly they didn't seem like they would be close – Romania was a creepy bastard, and England had a thing about creepy bastards since Russia began haunting him about communism when he was a socialist in the sixties. _Mind you he probably wanted to keep the whole black magyk thing on the down-low. Understandably. _Romania smiled just enough to show his wolfish, overly long canines (fangs?).

"I and _Norvegia_ are both here for the same reason. The Solstices are both incredibly magical times of year, particularly to England because of his pagan history. The number of times we have had to clean up _Angliya's_ messes he's made with magyk made us think that it's entirely possible that England had messed up a spell that leads him to be inconvenienced on the Solstice. Although, using logic,_ Angliya_ would have come to me or _Norvegia_for help." Romania's face was entirely solemn, ignoring the either incredulous or weary looks on the group's faces depending on how much they'd heard before. Norway added quietly, "This is why we believe that Scotland may have enacted a curse of some sort that is only active on the two Solstices. He will have stopped England from going to us to lift it, probably through threats or blackmail. He will have stopped Wales helping England either through the same curse or plain threats." He delivered this stony faced, and abruptly resumed his silence. Everyone was dumbstruck.

"OK… I will… consider it." France responded awkwardly; nobody quite knew what to say to something so fantastical. However the cogs in France's brain were turning: _It certainly fits with the best theory I can come up with so far, and England has always been very insistent that this sort of thing is real… And now these two. One person is insanity, two a coincidence, but three… No, it's completely irrational… But what was it that fictional English detective Arthur loved so much said? 'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'…_ France shook his head and put all thoughts of magic to the back of his mind.

The slightly awkward atmosphere was broken after about a minute and a half of nobody speaking, by the doors being practically busted off their handles from being kicked open. A couple of the group jumped at the loud noise but most of them, Germany in particular, just sighed as a figure walked through the doors announcing "The Awesome Me is here! Feel free to bow down before my Awesomeness! Hey, why isn't anybody talking? West, good to see you bro! Miss me much? _Kesesesese! _Den! Get your almost-as-awesome ass over here!" Prussia had the speech pattern of a machine gun, and Germany's "_Mein Gott, brüder_, shut up." Went unheard as Denmark vaulted the desk to bro-hug the loud albino.

"Ha, you wish you were as awesome as my ass, Gil." Germany's head was in his hands as the conversation quickly descended into pure untainted bullshit. "Ha! You wish I wished I was as awesome as your ass!" France decided it was best to cut them off here before they got stuck on a loop. "Good to see you too, _Prusse_. Now can we please get on with this?" Apparently this was enough to distract Prussia from the 'argument' that was developing. "_Ja, ja_. We need to figure out why Artie has unawesomely missed all our awesome booze-ups around the Solstices for, like, ever. _Gott,_ I need to stop watching crap American daytime TV, I sound like Poland." A vein once again started twitching in Germany's forehead.

"_Gott Verdammt, brüder!_ You shut up for _Frankreich_!"

France once again had to keep the meeting under control, as half the group were looking agitated and the other half bored shitless, which is not really the mood you aim for.

"_Allemagne,_ I am sure _Prusse _didn't mean anything by it, calm down. Gil, that's not really the issue here."

He then walked from his usual seat where he had been standing, up to the front, and wrote 'Reasons for England's absence: 10 mins' on the whiteboard in a bubble before putting an interactive timer on the projector screen.

"Are we ready to start the meeting? Good. Now we will discuss this topic for ten minutes, as shown by the timer. I will begin, and then I will start the timer once I have finished. This will be group discussion time. At the end of the allotted time we will move on to elaborate on any particularly good ideas. We will then repeat the process in discussing England's brother, potential people to replace him, and an overall plan of action for finding out where _mon petit lapin_ is or goes. _D'accord?_" France clapped his hands together expectantly and looked around for answers to his end question.

There were a few stunned nods, and Germany in particular was practically slack-jawed with amazement. "Why are you never this serious in meetings?" He asked.

France gave a small half smile. "Because, _mon cher_, I know we will never, ever accomplish anything in those meetings. So I figure why not just sit back and enjoy the show? Besides, this meeting is about something I actually care about and am interested in." The half-smile became a smirk at this. He ignored the slightly shell-shocked looks on people's faces and continued.

"I have been thinking on this for a while. There are a number of possible reasons for _mon lapin_'s repeated absences. All of them are unfortunately highly unlikely which is why I do not wish to spend a large amount of time on this subject. I believe the only possible reasons to be: sickness, kidnapping, 'emotional reasons', blackmail, something to do with his brother."

A few people looked like they were going to object but France silenced them with a finger and the warning "Interrupt me and I will come to your house and molest you in your sleep." France was well aware of his reputation for perversion (being constantly reminded of it by England, who he thought was a right hypocrite – the inventor of the vibrator and the sex chair in the _Victorian_ period in England and _he _was the pervert?) and utilised it to his maximum gain. Everyone shut up after that – no-one dared to put it past him.

He wrote the potential reasons in smaller bubbles off the central bubble with lines linking them to it – a mind map. "I will not talk for much longer. I know all these ideas are rather vague, and frankly I only put some on here to cross them off. Let us first look at sickness, for example. To get randomly sick at the same time every year for as long as anyone can remember is impossible. More likely, although not much, is that he may have some kind of condition which may need biannual treatment and perhaps Wales may have the same condition – from what we can gather from Scotland's unhelpful answers, Wales is missing at the same time and, the implication is, for the same reason. However as nations' bodies are self-healing, this would be surprising. Furthermore, while Arthur is certainly prideful enough to want to hide any weaknesses, most of us have at some point or other been allied to or fought against England so it is highly unlikely that none of us would have noticed something off about him. Indeed, both I and Alfred have spent time with him through the suspicious periods of time, and we would have certainly noticed were something amiss. Therefore, sickness is off. Kidnapping is frankly stupid – no ransom, and why the same time every year? So that is off."

France had begun counting the reasons off on his fingers, and pacing up and down, conceivably ignorant to the slightly awed looks some of the nations were giving him. "'Emotional reasons' are off – he comes to the meetings around the fourth of July, and most of us know what he is like around that time of year." There were a fair few grimaces at that. "Any emotional links to the Solstices we don't know about, he would either bottle up or drink to forget. Full on going missing is not his style." Nods of agreement. "I believe the last two to be linked. It is obvious Scotland enjoys going to these meetings, no matter whether he believes them to be pointless. Otherwise he would have accepted his being kicked out of meetings easily. There is no way Scotland would do this as a favour to his brother – I have too much experience of their relationship to hope otherwise. Therefore I must conclude that Scotland has some kind of blackmail, or power," this was obviously put in to appease Romania and Norway, "over England, only applicable twice a year, which he also uses on or which also works on Wales, so he can attend the two meetings. And possibly he may use it for other things as well, but this is just speculation now. It is weak and vague I know, but it is all I have got." France's face then brightened to his normal smirkish-smile. "So, _mes chers_, what do we all think? I will now start the timer." Doing so, France looked around expectantly.

Prussia was the first to speak. Slowly, he said "Jesus, Franny." His trademark smirk returned, however, as he added, "You should speak like that 'round Artie, he'd be all over you like a rash. He's had a thing for detectives since Sherlock Holmes."

France returned the smirk, however replied, "Please focus on the issue in hand, Gil." Prussia sighed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'spoilsport'.

Canada chipped in, thankfully louder than usual, "Uncle Scotland is always really possessive of _maman_. I was staying in England once. _Papa_, you came round and you and _maman_ were talking for a bit, 'til _maman_ kicked the you out, for groping him," Canada giggled and France's sigh went unheard, although he was secretly pleased Canada still called him and England daddy and mummy, "but after you'd left, Scotland, who always seems to be _chez maman_these days, literally locked him in a room for about an hour. From what I could hear, he was interrogating _maman_ about what you were doing." Prussia along with most of the others looked a little confused at this, and asked,

"Who is _Amerika_ calling _Mutti_ in French?" France gave him a 'duh' look, which morphed into a smirk as he replied, "England, of course. And it is of course _mon cher_ Canada, can you not tell by his sexy hair that is so much like my own?" Prussia grinned and made a mental note to tease England about it, apparently not noticing France's correction on the identity front.

America had been listening to this exchange gleefully, "Canadia, bro, you call Artie mommy? Oh, he is so never hearing the end of this! Never again will he tease me about my eating habits! The hero is now officially tease proof! Ha ha!" America pulled his hero pose and everyone looked varying degrees of irritated. "America, it's Canada, and Australia and New Zealand call England mum, it's no big - " Canada was back to his normal volume, and sighed as even France unknowingly butted in. He might notice Canada, but he wasn't past ignoring him. "_Amérique, Nouvelle-Zélande et Australie_ call Arthur mum, it's really not an issue." America sat down with a smug smile, evidently planning to use the new information against England. ("Maple! Wait 'til I get my hockey stick out, then they'll listen…"

"Who are you?" A small polar bear poked out of the rucksack at Canada's feet.

"It's Canada, Kumakichi! The man who feeds you!"

"Oh… fish man."

"Maple!")

France had by this point wiped the board of the previous mind map and written a whole new one with 'Scotland' at the centre. He clapped his hands twice and announced, "I know the ten minutes isn't up, but I think we would be wasting time speculating as to why England is absent. Now that Canada has brought this point up, I am certain that it is something to do with his brother, so we will focus on him. Also, _pour l'amour de dieu_, please try to stay on topic. I am sorry for starting the whole mum conversation, but can we try to stay focused from now on? _Bien_." There were reluctant ok's across the room and then silence descended, broken only by Germany's "Oh, _ja_, listen to _Frankreich_." Germany's scowl deepened. _Why does no one take the actual meetings seriously? Oh, yeah, global warming and the economy are positively trivial compared with this. _Germany's thoughts continued like this for several minutes.

France paused the timer and continued talking. "_D'accord_, so from what Canada said, _Ecosse_is extremely protective or even possessive of _Angleterre_. That could possibly be why he wants to stop him going to meetings – to prevent him getting into relationships with other nations."France wrote this on the whiteboard. "Now, does anyone have anything to say about _Ecosse_?"

Various nations then came forward with anecdotes about Scotland and England, Prussia and Denmark in particular having plenty of stories.

"Do you remember when he came out drinking with us, Køhler? _Gott_, that was so unawesome." Prussia started, only for Denmark to continue. "Mm, he sat with us all night ignoring us and silently downing whisky, so we pretended he wasn't there. Later when we were a little tipsy," (snorts from pretty much everyone, Prussia included. The capacity of the FBT to get utterly smashed was legendary), "I made a pass at Artie – for a joke! And he full on punched me in the face, the unawesome dick! My face is way too awesome to be punched!" Even America was looking a little irritated with the arrogance by this point, and Germany snapped at his brother and Denmark, "_Scheiβe_, could one of you please get a new word!" Only for Prussia to protest, "No way, West, awesome is awesome!" Head-desks all round. Denmark continued, "Anyway, back to the story. I'm way too awesome to be interrupted. Here's where it gets a bit creepy. After the whole unawesome-face-punching thing, he doesn't say a word, just goes back to nursing his third whisky which he's been on for like two hours, even in the face of my awesomely fear worthy Viking rage!" Prussia snorted derisively, and challenged,

"Bro, you totally threw a wobbly, as Artie puts it. That was not awesome Viking rage, that was a drunken toddler tantrum!" Prussia smirked at the outraged expression on his buddy's face.

"You did not just insult my awesome Viking rage!" Denmark looked furious, and Prussia looked like he was about to collapse laughing.

"I just did! You threw a hissy fit!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!" France looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, and Germany seemed to have taken France's part in the meetings for he was smirking coolly at France, Prussia and Denmark. It was quite a sight to behold, and France decided he would be a lot more helpful to Germany in meetings from now on. He also decided that **"If you two don't stop bickering like idiots, I will murder you both! TAIS-TOIS, the pair of you! Stop bickering and get the fuck on with the story! **_**Dieu**_**!" **He was standing up with his palms on the table, red in the face and yelling his head off. _Oh, God, I'm acting exactly like Germany. Please, don't let me turn into a sexually repressed beer swilling tight-arse! _Prussia looked shocked. "Calm down, Fran, you're meant to be the cool one."

"_Caisse-toi,_ Gil." France flopped down in his seat, defeated. Prussia took up the story from where Denmark left off.

"Whatever, Fran. So I will awesomely finish the story about the Scottish _arschloch_." Denmark looked like he was going to object but a glare from France shut him up sharpish. "Anyway, we all got a bit more smashed, apart from ginger-balls, and Artie, Matthias and I were making one of our awesome plans to go and put traffic cones on all the bus shelters in the area, or something similarly awesome, to be honest it's all a bit fuzzy – why are you glaring at me like that West? We never get caught, chill, we're too awesome for that. Anyway, _Schottland_ just gives us this evil glare, and when we go to leave and do some awesoming of the local area (that's the official verb), he literally picks Artie up and chucks him over his shoulder. Artie didn't even protest that much. At the time I thought it was because he was completely smashed and didn't really know what was going on. But thinking about it, he didn't actually have that much to drink, probably because his brother was there, and he just looked kind of resigned, like he was expecting it." Prussia finished, a bit red in the face, and took a huge breath, like a small child telling a parent that his imaginary friend broke the vase, honest. Which was fitting, considering what he had just said.

"_Merci pour ça, Danemark et_ Gil." France wrote on the board 'Scotland is very protective/possessive of England.' And underneath, 'England lets him push him around and act like that – wouldn't do this normally – power over England.' France looked up, "Does anyone disagree with anything I have written so far? _Non? Bien._"

America and France could both remember weird interactions between England and his brothers: America remembered, somewhat reluctantly, when he was a colony, Scotland would visit sometimes, and England would seem genuinely terrified of him. "In fact, he's the only nation England seems truly afraid of, or at least afraid enough to show it." He sounded unusually pensive, as if he'd never really considered it before. France quickly wrote a summary in his fluid cursive.

France recalled how Scotland would bully England when he was little, and how whenever he saw them argue even recently, it never went on for long, normally ending with England giving up quickly, or Scotland hitting England. France never questioned it because he assumed England must get back at him somehow, that being his way. "Although, in lieu of all this, perhaps I should have assisted _mon petit lapin_ more than I did…" During the course of the meeting, France's concern for England had skyrocketed. _Maybe this thing with Scotland is more serious than I thought… _He was distracted by Romania, who had been largely silent up to this point, although he and Norway had an air of smugness about them, probably because nothing they'd heard went against their theory. "Why do you always call _Angliya _'petit lapin'?" France winced at Romania mangling the words, however replied, "Because he's so cute, of course!" Romania just gave him a weird look and said, "Can we please get on with this 'plan' of yours; we've been in this 'meeting' for half an hour and I haven't heard a word of anything that could be called a plan." Romania's face was blank as ever but his eyes screamed a mixture of boredom and bloody murder. _God, he really is scarier than Russia. "_But of course, _Roumanie,_ I was going to be moving it along now anyway." He reassured the blood-eyed nation with barely concealed fear.

He went back to the business-like persona he seemed to have assumed for the purposes of this meeting. "Now, this plan isn't overly complicated. In fact, it's almost moronically simple, fool-proof as it were. All we have to do is set up surveillance outside his house before the next solstice, which is in a couple of days' time. A couple of us will also wait outside his house on the day in case, as I suspect, Scotland enters the house or England leaves, so we can either intervene in whatever may occur, or follow them." The room went deadly silent for a couple of seconds before America said warily,

"So… we might as well call this 'Operation: Stalk Iggy'." People were starting to look a bit suspicious: this was France, so it was entirely possible that he was using this for his own perverted gains. "_Frankreich_… I will not hesitate to call the police if this turns into some kind of peeping tom thing for you…" Germany looked sternly at France. Well, more sternly than usual anyway. France put on an over-the-top look of horror and offense, putting a hand to his forehead and tipping his head back dramatically. "_Mes chers_, you wound me! How could you think such a thing! My intentions in this are nothing but innocent, I swear!" No-one was fooled.

"_Frankrig_, if you perv on my drinking buddy, I will not hesitate to punch your face in. That is a promise." Denmark was looking dangerous, and entirely serious. France returned brought out his serious face. "Of course, that is entirely reasonable. I promise I will act entirely honourably, and will delete any indecent footage." _Unless we get any really good stuff, ohonhonhon._ Denmark looked satisfied until France stopped speaking and started thinking, unwittingly putting on his infamous 'rape face'. Prussia recognised the infamous face, and warned, "Franny, whatever it is you're thinking, stop it. You might find perving on Artie fun, but if Matt catches you perving on Artie I'm not gonna stop him, and will probably lend a hand. Or a fist. You're one of my best friends, but that face is terrifying. And anything that terrifies the awesome Prussia is seriously unawesome." Prussia's face was deadly – he had first-hand experience of how France got when in his pervier mood. America was glaring at France, ("If I catch you with your face on 'round Artie I will go totally hero on your ass.") and Canada looked nothing short of exasperated. ("Maple! _Papa_, you're just giving yourself a bad reputation.")

_Merde__, I had no idea so many people were so protective of England. _France looked fairly terrified now, and was seriously considering doing an Italy. _Must ask him where he hides those white flags._ "Ok, ok, I will not keep any of the footage we get! _Jésus_, lighten up!" Everyone relaxed a bit. "So we will set up cameras trained on his front door and any windows – excluding the bathroom," a conciliatory measure, "—we can see or get access to. Luckily his ground floor is open plan, so we should be able to see if he does anything there. The second and third floors will be more difficult, but I am sure we will manage."

Prussia interjected, "Pfft, his house is stupidly huge. So unawesome." America laughed , and taunted Prussia with, "Dude, you live in a basement. A broom cupboard's probably 'stupidly huge' to you!" Prussia just smirked and replied, "At least my second home isn't a McDonald's, unawesome fatarse." America pouted.

"I'm the hero, I need lots of energy for, uh, heroing! Yeah!" France rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"_Amérique_, you were doing so well! I thought you had finally learnt to shut up!" _It would fall to pieces so close to the end, wouldn't it?_ America looked like he was going to argue, but then quite unexpectedly sat down and shut up, after grunting, "Let's just here the rest of your stupid plan then." France frowned but continued, "Prussia, Denmark and I will go down to the house on the day, since we know the area-"

"No." Norway seemed to have not quite used up his daily word quota with his speech at the beginning.

"_Quoi_?" France was understandably shocked. In truth he wasn't really expecting anyone to object to his plan. Despite Norway being the one to object, it was Romania who elaborated, if not fully explained, the objection. "What _Norvegia_ is saying is that he and I will be the ones to accompany you." This was said with a tone of finality, inviting no argument. "Care to explain why, _Roumanie? Norvége?_" France questioned, mildy annoyed. Prussia and Denmark had matching looks of outrage on. "No, not really. Problem?" Romania smiled, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees. "Ah,_non, non_. Just curious, really." His reassuring smile was more of a grimace. Prussia and Denmark were both glaring at him, but _I'd rather face a century of their glares than a second of Romania's_. "Good." This was accompanied by another one of Romania's icy smiles, and was in no way meant to appease so much as petrify. France swallowed and then shook his head, trying to clear it. "So, any questions?"

Germany put his hand up, looking a little awkward, "Um, _ja, Frankreich_. I am concerned for England, and want to get rid of _Schottland_ as soon as possible, but… I am not very sure of the, ah, legal ramifications of this plan of yours. I was wondering if it would be ok for me to, ah…"

France smiled knowingly, "…sit this one out? _Ouais, bien sûr_. I understand. That stick you have shoved up your _derriére_ is in far too deep for you to get involved in this sort of thing." Germany grimaced and scowled at how France termed his law-abiding disposition.

"I would have put it differently, but essentially, _ja_, I am unwilling to take risks. However I would be very interested to see what you find out, and if you come up with a way to get rid of the Scottish _arschloch_ I will join in if it involves murder, but I don't want to join in with this. It feels a bit uncomfortable." Germany's face morphed into a smirk, which looked very strange on him. "Although I would like to thank you for allowing me to sit back and not take control of a meeting for once. You are right, it is very… entertaining. I think perhaps I will be doing this more often from now on."

France paled a little, crying, "Oh, _Dieu, Allemagne,_ please don't! You are the only thing that stops those lunatic conferences from descending into mass murder!" Germany laughed at this, and said,

"Don't worry, I can't stand chaos – so inefficient. You must tell me how you get people to listen to you, though."

France smiled a little and said, "It's just because I don't shout very often. If I acted the way I acted in this meeting all the time people wouldn't listen to me either. When was the last time anyone paid attention to one of _Angleterre's_ rants?" Germany groaned resignedly. "Now, any more questions?"

America, who had been looking annoyed for some time, jumped up. "Yeah, actually. I'm the hero, I should be the one to go and save Iggy from the evil Scottish asshole!"

France smiled slightly. He could practically hear England going 'That's not a question, you utter moron. Now sit down and shut up, you complete wanker, before you give anyone _else_ a migraine.' France frowned, worrying about the fact that he seemed to be thinking about England a little too much – what he would say to this or that, how he would be insulting people, or yelling. He shrugged it off – he probably was just bored without being able to have an intelligent argument. France replied to America, smirking, "That's not a question, _Amérique_. But to answer your non-question, you can't come because wherever you go you make as much noise as the neighbourhood where the 'Elephant Marching Band Club' is conveniently situated next to the Vuvuzela manufacturer and the TNT testing ground." America gave him a blank look, and France clarified, speaking very slowly, "You are too loud, _mon cher_. You would be useless on a reconnaissance mission such as this. Also, you have little knowledge of the local area." He grinned, "And, obviously I must go because of my superior spying skills, and my gift for stalking – ah, covert surveillance, _ohonhonhon_." Prussia grinned at this. "Good to have you back, Fran."

"Why, thank you, Gil _ma chérie._" Francis grinned. "Right, I have plenty of cameras we can use – don't ask," he flashed a quick half-smile, "and we only have tomorrow to set them up covertly. Prussia, Denmark and America – provided he can be quiet – will set them up seeing as they are not now part of the action, under my supervision of course." The matching scowls of the mentioned parties dissipated a little. "On the day everyone else will be back at HQ – my house – monitoring the cameras and informing us of any interesting news, for example if it looks like he's ill. Clear?" Nods all round. "_Bien_. Meeting adjourned."

A plan was set in motion.

..:.:.:.]**II**[.:.:.:..


	4. III

**I own Hetalia. I won it in the school raffle. So there, corporate bitches.  
Or for the lawyery people who cannot handle sarcasm: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. PINKY SWEAR.**

**In other news, I hate disclaimers.**

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**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

_In the Heart of the Woods_

**Pairings:**FrEng, RomaniEng, ScotEng (sort of), AmeriCana and PruDen/DenPru eventually, possibly Past!ScotFr

**Genre: **Fantasy/Drama, really. There will be fae. Of course, there will be romance chucked in, because what would be the point otherwise?

**Universe: **Canon!Verse with a twist

**WARNINGS: **From here on out, it will get very fantastical. So if you're not into fantasy, then this isn't for you. At all. Language, possibly non/dub-con in later chapters, and also possibly lemon if I ever get the ability to write it

**..:.:.:.]-[.:.:.:..**

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..:.:.:.{**III**}.:.:.:.._  
_

It began at Arthur's house. Ten PM. Matthias, Gilbert and Alfred under Francis's direction set up numerous cameras (from Francis's scarily large personal collection) in trees, on walls (they were extremely high-def so they could be place quite far from the house and still have good quality picture of the windows) and on windowsills the night after the Summer solstice meeting – one more day and night and then the Solstice was upon them. Francis at first was incredibly cautious, in the evening when it was still light, but it became increasingly apparent as it got later that Arthur was either asleep or occupied. Although Francis did notice the odd flash of green appearing at the window of what he knew was the bedroom (sadly not for the reason he hoped – he had walked in there by accident once. And promptly chased Arthur in there for a laugh at any opportunity. He was hardly going to ignore that little piece of information.) Francis whispered for the others to duck and cover the first couple of times but later just ignored it.

In a rare stroke of genius, Alfred proposed they put tracking devices on all his vehicles (Arthur had several fifties/sixties Triumph motorbikes as well as a vintage Jag, an old Mini Cooper, and a more recent Aston Martin.) It meant Francis had to text Matthew to find them in his stash of 'equipment' and bring them over, but that was no bother for him. Or no-one cared if it was. Either. The garage was locked, but Francis just rolled his eyes and went to the side door. He reached for the top of the door frame, and sure enough a spare key was in his hand a second later. "Oh, _petit lapin_, so predictable."

Matthew handed out the tracking devices, keeping two for himself. The now five-strong group set to work on putting them on the various vehicles. They were just about done when Gilbert called out "Hey, I think we're two short! Who did the nearest Triumph and the Jag?" America replied "Aw, man, Canasia must have forgotten two!"

Matthew looked exasperated and yelled (as much as he could, anyway) **"I did them! I didn't forget! I'm still here!" **Francis heard a sort of whisper from the far side of the group, and did a double take as he noticed Matthew. "_Mon petit!_ You are still here? You should have said! Did you do the last two trackers?" Matthews annoyance increase a bit more, not helped by Matthias practically jumping out of his skin at the nation that seemed to have materialised in front of him and yelling "America! There are two of you? Not fair, if anyone should have a clone it should be me, so I can spread the awesomeness!" and America yelling "MATTIE! Dude! When did you join the partay?! Hey, you wouldn't happen to have two spare trackers, would you?" Matthew's face was tinged pink, and he snapped,

"**IT'S CANADA! CA-NA-DA! I'VE BEEN HERE SINCE I BROUGHT THE TRACKERS! AND, NO, WE'RE NOT TWO SHORT, I BROUGHT THEM!" **There was a moment's pause as everyone fully registered the semi-invisible nation.

Francis and Alfred immediately looked apologetic, although Francis gave Alfred an odd look when he went and put an arm around Matthew and said "Sorry, Mattie, I was just playing around. You know that right?" before pulling him into an awkward hug that went on just slightly too long. Matthew's face was now red for an entirely different reason. Matthias and Gilbert looked nothing short of terrified, if also vaguely impressed, at the ghost nation who could seemingly disappear at will, yet had just had a shouting fit that knocked several tools off the wall. Gilbert excitedly yelled "So awesome! You can just disappear and reappear like whenever! You have to teach the awesome me how to do it!" Denmark quickly agreed,  
"You must awesomely teach me as well! Think of all the beer I could steal!" Matthew looked a little flustered at all the sudden (loud) attention, but then crestfallen as he realised he was back to being ignored when the conversation quickly descended into nonsensical bickering. As usual. "And we could break into all the women's changing rooms in the gyms, _kesesese!_" Matthias grinned tauntingly,  
"Better not let your brother hear you say that, Gil, or he'll lock you in the basement. Oh, no, I forgot, you already live there!" Gilbert frowned for a sec, thinking of an argument.  
"Ha! Well at least I don't have to tidy up! And no paperwork! The Awesome me has no time for paperwork!"  
Matthias smirked a smirky smirk. "Oh, yeah, your days are packed. Between Call of Duty and masturbation fests you couldn't possibly fit anything else in! Just admit that I am more Awesome than you and be done with it!" Gilbert looked absolutely horrified at the last part.  
"Never! At least I don't have stupid spiky hair, hedgehog head!"

"My hair is awesome! I bet you have wet dreams about my awesome hair, snow cone! At least my little brother doesn't lock me in my room!" Gilbert secretly wished Arthur was there to make some dry comment about the plausibility of having a wet dream about spiky hair.

France's mind had been in another place entirely throughout most of the ridiculous argument. He had noticed that while they had been making enough noise to wake a whole neighbourhood, not a single person had come to check it out. He knew Arthur was in, that flash of green was definitely a person – the right size and shape – and besides, none of his cars or bikes were missing, and they'd been there since this evening and not seen anyone leave the house (by then it was about three in the morning). Furthermore, though there were no neighbours for a mile, Arthur normally had a maid and a butler at the least, and the chef (which Francis insisted he get because left to his own devices Arthur would either starve or die in a house fire, which Francis thought would have been a rather anticlimactic end to an eventful life. It wasn't because he cared, heaven forbid. He just wanted to prevent a pointless death) would normally have been in for a couple of hours while they were there. _Something very strange is going on with Arthur._

He was brought back to earth by the increasing volume of the argument the two were having. _So wearisome. Looks like I'll have to intervene. Again._

"_Tais-toi_, the pair of you. _Doux Jésus_, you two could start an argument with a box that had 'I am more awesome than you' written on it – and lose! We will attract attention, so please be quiet." This was said in a resigned and somewhat weary voice, but it shut everyone up. In all honesty, he highly doubted there was any attention to attract, but if it kept them quiet he would maintain the illusion. They were too busy stupidly bickering, fantasising about hamburgers or imagining all the ways to kill someone with a hockey stick to notice the lack of people anyway. He carried on, "I am sorry for forgetting you, _Mathieu_, that was poor form." ("_C'est bien, Papa._") "We are done now, _mes chers_. _Felicitatións_, and let us now make our way quietly to the van." They all left, Matthew pointlessly asking, "I'll take my own car, shall I? Oh, maple, what's the point."

On the way out, Gilbert decided he needed to win the argument. He whispered "Oi, hedgehog head, you shouldn't be sarcastic or you'll turn into Artie. Tomorrow you'll be drinking tea by the pint and knitting embroidered elf cosies or something."

Matthias just looked bemused and whispered back "What's an elf cosy?"

Gilbert put on a wise face and said knowingly, "A cosy for elves." Matthias pretended to suddenly remember what an elf cosy was, not wanting to look stupid, and added, "Oh, yeah, right. Of course."

Francis overheard the whole conversation. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "_Dieu_, it's like a convention for idiots."

He earned himself a loud 'Shush!' from everyone else.

On the day of the Solstice, the group was arranged thus: Dmitri, Lukas and Francis were in a bush in Arthur's expansive driveway, with their van parked invisibly on the other side of an easily scalable wall a few metres away. Matthew and Alfred were in Francis' living room monitoring the cameras and updating Francis on the situation in the house, and Gilbert and Matthias were in Francis' bedroom looking for sex toys and trying to prove or disprove Matthias's theory that Francis wore ladies' knickers. Although that wasn't exactly part of the plan.

Very little happened for much of the day, and Francis thanked god he hadn't brought Gil and Matthias or his day would've been hellish; they had the attention span of three year olds on cocaine and he honestly didn't think he could have been bothered to entertain them. Or last the day without killing them. He could handle Gilbert by himself, but combined with Matthias he turned into one half of a human hurricane. He had much more respect for Arthur considering he dealt with their tag-team idiocy on a monthly if not weekly basis. _Although I imagine they're a lot more entertaining when you're paralytic._ Dmitri and Lukas on the other hand sat absolutely frozen, cross-legged and staring at their house intently, for the entire experience. Francis swiftly gave up on small talk after the first slightly awkward non-exchange ("So… _Roumanie_. How do you know _Angleterre_?" "…" "_Norvége_? How about yourself?" "…" "Not ones for small talk, are you?" "…" "…"). Frankly he wondered they didn't get cramp.

In a way he was glad because it meant absolutely no effort on his part, but it was a little awkward. The only sound was hourly updates by text from Alfred. For the first four hours (they had been there since two. Francis was staying nearby so would go over if anything went wrong, say a vehicle left or if Arthur went out before they arrived, he could get over fairly quickly. The plan was that he, Dmitri and Lukas would go over at two and see if anything happened. If nothing did, they would approach the house at eight and confront Arthur. Or break in) the updates read nothing but 'No sign of A. Nothing going on here. Hero :3' with the occasional text from Gilbert reading something along the lines of 'Fran, you have some weird shit under your bed. :/'

But then, at half-four they got about seven urgent texts from Matthew and Alfred both, to all their mobiles reading 'Scotland at gates, be careful' from Matthew and 'EVIL kILT GY ALErT LOOK OUT :O' from Alfred. Dmitri and Lukas, almost as one, stood up and silently moved behind a bush. They had been weirdly in sync all day and it was starting to freak Francis out. _I will never get used to that. They certainly don't do it in meetings, whatever 'it' is._ Francis moved next to them with almost as much grace however stuck his head above the bush with binoculars trained on the driveway. Just seconds later a head of fierce red hair underscored by thick brows of the same colour came into view as Scotland sauntered up the driveway, sneer in place as ever. Francis had grown to loathe that smirk.

Francis's eyes followed his progress all the way up the driveway. Scotland knocked on the door and leant against the frame lazily, one leg crossed over the other. A cigarette lolled at the side of his mouth. Alasdair would occasionally blow clouds of smoke out through his nose. A sliding panel suddenly opened in the door, and Arthur's distinctive green eyes appeared at the hole in the door. Francis grinned, triumphant and texted 'A home' to Alfred without looking away from the scene. It was strange – the hallway was clearly darkened, Arthur's eyes being the only thing visible. The strange thing was, they weren't shadowed but so clear as to look luminous. They seemed to have a pinprick of light in each pupil, and the way the irises shone was nothing short of unearthly. The thought occurred to Francis that he might be a little out of his depth.

Dmitri could sense his companion's discomfort as he watched the exchange between Arthur and Scotland with his usual blank expression. However inside his mind was racing. Something this exciting hadn't happened in years. He already had an idea of what might be going on with Arthur, but he needed to confirm his suspicions. And as soon as he saw Arthur's eyes, he knew he was right. Furthermore, Arthur's superficially snappy but subtly deferential way with Scotland (never lashing out, never raising his voice even to insult him, never even looking him in the face, eyes narrowed in not just hatred or anger but to hide fear) meant Arthur's problem could be even more fascinating than he had hoped. This certainly alleviated the boredom that had consumed his life of late. Paperwork, the economy, what did it matter? It was beneath his interest. Whereas this…

Dmitri had an eye for the interesting. He loved to observe people, gauge their body language and tone of voice until he could read them like a book. He spent most meetings doing this. It did keep him entertained, however it made him terribly bored at the same time. People lost their mystery when he could read them like that, their lies and desires painfully obvious, their idea of clever deceit pathetically unsubtle. He found most people both boring and faintly repulsive in their transparency. For example, the two Axis members who clearly were attracted to each other – Ludwig and Feliciano – once amused him with the way they danced around each other. Now they annoyed him, neither of them having the guts to just confess, their attempts at flirting with the other gawky and patent.

So when someone like Arthur – wonderful, complicated, enigmatic Arthur – comes along, who is Dmitri to ignore him? Admittedly, at first he paid the Englishman little notice, assuming he was your standard 'the more he appears to hate you the more he likes you,' faux-grumpy-old-man type. However, when you spend most of your time observing, apparently minor discrepancies such as a missed meeting or two become fascinating patterns and mysteries to be unravelled if you notice the pattern. Arthur's clockwork absences had attracted his attention roughly the fifth year they happened.

Eager to find out the reason, Dmitri began observing him more and more. He was disappointed at the lack of progress, undoubtedly. However… The pleasure he got from just observing Arthur almost made up for that. He cursed himself retrospectively for dismissing Arthur as merely grumpy. So much of this was faked, a disguise for deeper emotions. He remembered how Arthur was feared as a pirate and an empire both. Eyewitness accounts remembered sadism bordering on psychopathy, and a dangerous self-confidence. It was there in the punk years as well, that cocky arrogance, cynicism and general ennui with the universe he so cleverly disguised as grumpy. He knew there was more to England than met the eye. He knew that England was both wilder and more complicated than he made himself out to be. To have the world in the palm of your hand, or to experience the rush of adrenaline that comes with rebellion against the system… No-one would want to give that up, especially not Arthur. His grumpiness masked his frustration at having to conform.

Arthur wouldn't just leave those days behind. Therefore he must be releasing his innate anger some other way.

The question was: Which way?

There were some things he sighed at, yes. Arthur's repeated claims of hatred for Francis were so clearly bullshit, and vice versa for Francis, that it was tiresome. Dmitri was amazed that the self-proclaimed country of love was still blind to the feelings for Arthur he obviously had. The fact that their mutual friendship, if you could call it that, (he had to admit their relationship's complexity held his fascination at times) made him uncomfortable was something that he didn't quite want to dissect. Observing oneself is always most difficult, after all.

Arthur had so many levels and tones and shades of false anger and causticity that at first Dmitri could hardly tell what he was thinking. Even after sixty-odd years of solid observation (and several near-misses where Arthur sensed someone staring, thankfully only to blame it on Russia, to whom he was eternally grateful for his ostentatious creepiness – it hid his own more subtle brand rather well) it was only twenty years ago he began to get to grips with the subtleties of Arthur's angry mask. He began to be able to tell when he was hurt, joking, sarcastic, properly angry – although this was easy as he tended to go very quiet and pale, hiss something venomous and walk off – happy – again, if he was happy he would tend to be just jokingly grumpy, and even smile, so, easy – or bored shitless. He also began to tell what Arthur felt about people. The amount of contempt he held for surprising people was incredible.

For instance, Germany. On the surface it would appear that Arthur quite respected Germany. He was meticulously polite and did what he said, most of the time. He was so polite it was suspicious. Dmitri soon pegged his 'yes, sir, no, sir, if you please, sir' courtesy as a mockery. He loathed Germany, loathed the stick in his arse, loathed that people thought they were so similar. His politeness was a parody of Germany's sincerity and his need to follow the rules was mocked by Arthur's refusal to do anything but, yet still not quite believe in them.

Arthur was an anarchist, Dmitri decided. Germany's conformity pained him.

He noticed that particular types of anger went with particular people. He observed Arthur's relationship with America and came to understand it more than either of them ever would. Arthur's anger or grumpiness with America was always either put on and indulgent, or genuine and hurt. When he first started observing Arthur the emotions in his eyes when faced with the louder nation became painfully obvious no matter how frozen the rest of his face. Dmitri had of course heard the story of the American independence ordeal, so he wasn't surprised to find a deep hurt and longing still embossed in Arthur's eyes. But there was more to it than that. At some point between 1776 and the nineteen-sixties Arthur's feelings for America had clearly mutated into something more than brotherly. Dmitri wanted to laugh at all the others who hadn't noticed – Elizabeta would have killed to know – but his face always remained an impassive mask. Arthur would seem more nervous and, for want of a better word, blush-y around America. For God's sake, he was fidgeting like a school-girl with a crush when he gave the blue-eyed nation Valentine's chocolate.

Dmitri would have been disappointed in Arthur had it gone somewhere, or had he shown some emotion towards the nation. Well, he called it disappointment but at times it felt more like anger for reasons Dmitri just couldn't quite face. Curiously, Arthur continued to hide his feelings like a pro, and by the mid-seventies, the signs had just gone, although the deeper pain of abandonment still nested in his eyes. Dmitri almost incredulously placed an 'ex-' in front of 'one-sided love: England to America' in his mental relationship graph.

He cursed himself for mixing up a crush with love; his observation skills had let him down. England _had_ a crush on the blonde nation, but clearly moved on. America and England's pasts were at once too close and too far apart, and the former too ignorant, for someone as self-effacing as England to consider making a move.

Reserved for France was a teasing and smug, triumphant anger, a friendly, joking grumpiness, or a weary yet loud and indignant horror (the latter mostly as a result of some moronically flirtatious or perverted comment from France; Dmitri slightly despised France because his front was at once too effective and annoying – he masked emotions by adopting a pansexual 'I want to get in your pants' attitude that Romania found nothing short of mind-numbing). Dmitri defined their relationship as akin to a really old jumper: ridiculously comfortable, but not to be inspected too closely – you might not like what you find. Dmitri had once tried to compare the relationship to a normal human one and the best he could come up with was 'old married couple'. He was again assaulted by the deeply uncomfortable feeling he got on seeing England with France.

A side note – Francis's open terror of him was one of the most hilarious things he'd ever seen. Normally he was lighter hearted, but when he saw how strongly France reacted to his glares, he began overdoing it to a massive extent. He was beginning to think he was laying it on a bit thick.

Oh well. France's scared face was worth it. Facile dullard of a man deserved a shock now and again.

England, however, never ceased to amaze him – boring old England, turning up to a meeting in the early seventies with fifteen piercings, a guitar tattoo beneath his collarbone and red Doc Martens? England dabbling with Dark magyk? (badly, but Dmitri could see that this was because White Magyk ran thick in his veins, and Dark and White magyk is less oil and water than dynamite and a lit fuse when combined.) England clearly hating his brother with a purity usually reserved for rapists and mother-murderers? Dmitri added the last observation on the spot, noting Arthur's reaction to his own brother with interest. They had a brief conversation at the door, England's eyes either narrowed in hate or widened in fear the whole time, Scotland with a self-satisfied grin sharpening his features. Abruptly Scotland turned and left, causing Francis to duck behind the bush hurriedly and Dmitri to roll his eyes at the obviousness. In case our lovely reader hasn't guessed, if there was one thing Dmitri hated more than boring people it was obviousness.

Scotland had ostensibly come to deliver some information, although possibly to annoy Arthur. Probably both. Arthur's submissiveness to the older man cemented in his mind the idea of some power held over England. He was more glad than ever that he had talked Lukas into joining him on this probable fool's errand, although it hadn't been hard: mentioning the words 'probably involving magyk' to Norway was like dangling a burger just slightly out of America's reach – he was bound to jump.

When Francis got the group together, had Dmitri been the sort he would have jumped up and down with glee. He could finally find out what was going on with Arthur (although he had his own pet theory concerning magyk and the solstice) and Scotland, and hopefully scare Francis away from Arthur at the same time. He reasoned that he was annoyed at the two's closeness because he knew people in love were much more frivolous with their emotions, thus denying him the enigma that was Arthur. (He might have respected Francis more were he to know that Francis loved mysteries as much as he did. It would certainly explain their mutual fascination – admittedly a slightly euphemistic term for 'obsession' – with Arthur.)

Though he felt a strange disappointment that he couldn't keep both the mystery and the answer to himself. He supposed someone else would notice eventually – England only had a few friends and relatives, but he kept them close. It just had to be France, though, didn't it?

Now, though… Something was happening tonight, and Dmitri intended to be there. Arthur was hiding something, Scotland knew what it was, and he would find out if it killed him.

The exchange between the owner of the house whose driveway they were illicitly occupying and his much detested brother took less than a minute and a half. Alasdair knocked on the door twice lazily before leaning against the doorframe languidly. Arthur opened a slot in the door and peered out, his expression souring as he clocked his brother. Alasdair spoke first, his face indifferent and blank. Arthur's eyes scowled, a bitten-out acidic reply probably drifting through the hole in the door. Alasdair smiled his Cheshire-cat grin and uttered a very short remark which seemed to infuriate Arthur more than he could bear. He slammed the slot shut, which was considerably less dramatic than slamming a door. Alasdair laughed from in front of the door, blew a kiss at it (Francis and Dmitri both could practically picture Arthur's scowl), and loped back up the drive, narrowly missing seeing the small group of Arthur-stalkers.

Francis sent a quick text to Alfred reporting what happened and that Alasdair had left. Francis balked as Dmitri and Lukas as one moved slightly to the left of the bush and proceeded to once again be perfectly still for the next four-and-a-half hours. (He missed the look and half-smirk they shared before doing it). Alfred's hourly updates became half-hourly as they realised Arthur was indeed in and now moving visibly through the house, although they still read either 'A in kitchen wearing weird cape. Boooorrrrrreeed.' Or 'A in library looking at ooolllddd books. Like, older than him and that's ooollld. Still wearing weird cape' (to which Francis replied, 'Alfred, I am older than him. :|') or 'A invisible.' Dmitri and Lukas exchanged a(nother) look at the mention of old books. Dmitri looked very smug; it was kind of hard to tell with Norge.

Francis was beginning to give up. Which was reasonable: his only entertainment since Scotland's visit had been Gilbert's "cryptic" texts at 8.13, 8.15 and 8.24 reading respectively, 'did u no køhler is rlly good kissing :O', 'can I use ur bed? P.s. u o me 1 4 hiding u from west when u groped Italy pps I will clean sheets', and 'dammit u have 2 much lube 2 choose from an I rlly never thought Id say that.' Normally he wouldn't hesitate to tease Gil, (in fact he was saving it for later) but he was a man on a mission. His best friend and his long time UST buddy's sexual escapades were currently of no importance and no matter how much he longed to make a comment along the lines of 'about damn time' (although phrased more pervily and with lots of mentions of the Dane's apparent 'unawesomeness', of course), this was spying, and he and Arthur both took that very seriously. It was in fact one of the few things they had in common.

Apart from both being perverts and having hot tempers and alcohol issues, although try getting either to admit to that.

At half-nine, he got an urgent phone call from Matthew.

"_Mathieu, mon chou, quelle-est la problemme?_" _(Matthew, what is the problem?)_ Matthew sounded a little flustered and was switching between French and English (as he was wont to do when stressed.)

"_Papa, Maman_… Arthur is packing a bag and looks like he is going somewhere! _Je ne sais pas oú_!" (_I do not know where!)_ Matthew sounded panicked, and Francis glanced up to see a form heading for the front door. Dmitri and Lukas were already behind a bush.

"_Mon petit, calmez-vous. __Je sais ce que je fais._ _Nous le suivons_, _non_?" _(Calm down. I know what I am doing. We follow him maintenant, no?)_ He hung up as Arthur's motorbike revving was heard from the garage, grabbing his binoculars and phone and vaulting the wall easily (being a nation did have its perks, as Francis and indeed Arthur never ceased to remind Gilbert), Lukas and Dmitri following, or synchronised-gliding, behind him. By now Francis just ignored it.

He clambered into the driving seat; Dmitri sat beside him and Lukas in the back. They watched Arthur's motorbike zoom out of sight before they began to give chase. Francis noted with some interest and more than a little nostalgia that Arthur was wearing a green cape he hadn't seen for some time. He focused himself before he could get lost in memories of times past.

Lukas had full access to the tracking devices they had placed and was silently watching the point moving across the screen. "He is headed for the woods a few miles away." He said abruptly. Francis gave him a mystified look. "How do you know?"

"It is the only place he could be headed." Lukas refused to elaborate more than that and apparently so did his usually more verbose companion – Dmitri's lips remained sealed also. Francis set forth for the woods, keeping Arthur half a mile away at all times.

The van pulled up the narrow country lane only to get stuck. Francis backed up. "Are you sure he went this way, _Norvége_?" Norway just fixed him with a cold, slightly imperious look and said,

"His motorbike is at the top of that field. I highly doubt it got there of its own accord." Francis withered a little at the sharp put-down, but ignored it. Somehow he felt arguing with Lukas wouldn't be nearly as fun as with Arthur. "_Allons-y, alors?_" Francis climbed out of the driver's seat and onto the last paved road for a while, not giving a damn about the glare burning into his back. If Dmitri couldn't stand French he was just going to have to suck it.

They walked up the lane and up said field, indeed passing Arthur's motorbike near the top. Francis was almost shaking with nervous anticipation; the mystery of where exactly Arthur went was about to be solved for good. Dmitri was feeling similar, however mingled with a sense of smugness and also disappointment. He was certain he was right, however after this that would be it. Arthur: solved. No more mysteries for Dmitri, only petty little social issues and tissue paper masks to catch his interest. He sighed. Francis didn't bother to question why.

Lukas seemed to be taking little interest. There was a slight glow in his eyes, however, and inwardly he was very excited. He could practically taste the power in the area. He always knew Arthur was hiding something about his magical ability – to fail that badly at Dark Magyk is beyond having little to no magical power. That is clearly the result of an intensely powerful White Magycian, or Fey, trying to pervert his own power for curses or similar. And failing.

Francis had a camera set to night vision – it was ten o'clock and even on the Solstice they only had about twenty minutes of sunlight left. And it would be dark in the woods anyway.

He noticed a scrap of green material at the edge of the wood, caught on a bramble. Arthur had been this way recently.

Francis suddenly gasped "_Merde_!" and took a few steps backwards. About a kilometre away a beam of golden light exploded from the forest roof and shot up towards the sky, flowing and dissolving into the air a little before the cloud bank. It looked like wave after wave of concentrated sunlight. It turned blue, white, silver and the same green as Arthur's eyes and the surrounding forest before settling on gold. A pillar of golden light that could possibly be seen for miles penetrated the horizon. Francis now knew why Arthur came here: the nearest human dwelling was a farm miles away, the second the same but further. Francis was willing to bet Arthur just paid them a hefty sum not to ask questions.

Francis didn't even notice that neither of his two companions had so much as flinched. A small smile – more of a slight upturn of one corner of the lips – rested on Lukas's lips, and Dmitri was full on grinning. It looked quite unnatural on him.

Francis and Dmitri in sync whispered "Arthur." Francis turned surprised at being part of a chorus. _Perhaps whatever they have is catching…_ He wasn't exactly sure how he knew it was Arthur, but he knew that light wasn't manmade, and he knew he needed to find out why and how it was there. He turned to the other two and said, "I am going in. You two stay here and watch for Alasdair – I mean _Ecosse_." He forgot neither of them knew Scotland's real name.

He sprinted off in the direction of the light, finding there was a distinct path in the right direction. Later he would wonder why he didn't notice the glowing, pale blue orbs of light that seemed to be lighting the way; it should have been pitch black yet their glow permeated the darkness, revealing a tunnel leading exactly where the light was.

Francis took a deep breath before sprinting off into the forest.

As Francis's back retreated into the darkness Lukas and Dmitri shared a look. "He does not actually think we are going to obey him does he?" Lukas's tone held no sarcasm, just a mild curiosity.

"The man is an idiot. I understand now why dear Arthur feels the need to punch him every ten minutes. I admire his restraint." Lukas doesn't make a remark about 'dear Arthur', but contents himself with turning away and rolling his eyes imperceptibly. They both turn to leave but Dmitri puts a hand on Lukas's chest. "You are staying here. I will follow the idiot, you will look for _Scoţia_" Lukas looked ready to interrupt but Dmitri just continued, "Move from this spot and I will burn your magyk books and curse your troll so it goes insane," Lukas's eyes narrowed slightly before he returned to his normal bored-looking appearance. Dmitri added as a last thought, "Do not contact the others, they won't understand. It is bad enough that Francis," said with a slightly odd tone, as though the name itself tasted bad, "has to know, let alone the whole world." Lukas just nodded. _As if I would tell those idiots anyway._

Romania knew what was going on from when the pillar of light appeared – his theory involved much research into Old English and Celtic folklore, and thus was able to tell what it was – and also knew it would go on for a while, so maintained a more leisurely pace through the forest. He pulled off a pure silver Celtic knot bangle he had brought just in case and tossed it over his shoulder as an offering to the Fey, sprites and Will-O'-Wisps that resided there. He hoped it would make up for the complete ignorance of the other man, who could have potentially angered the inhabitants of the forest by just running through without a thought. _Francis is really making a liability of himself. _

Francis's faster pace led him to the clearing where the beam of light was coming from and he stood at the edge. He gasped for the second time at what he saw there.

The clearing was bordered by oaks and sycamores, and they all seemed to glow vibrantly with light, even in the twilight. It was covered in grass and clovers except in the middle. This more than the strange ethereal glow was what caught Francis's attention.

For in the middle of the clearing, a knife stood upright. A knife of silver and pure diamond. It had obviously been used to carve the five-pointed star-within a circle that was engraved in the ground with the knife at its centre, flecked with dirt. The pentagram was on fire – how Francis couldn't work out – and from it the pillar of light was emitting continuously, a low hum resonating from it.

But even these Francis did not notice immediately. There was something more conspicuous holding his attention.

Arthur.

His cape was dumped a metre from where Francis was standing. He wore a green tunic and brown leggings, bare feet and a belt with an intricate sheath attached.

But even his odd attire was not the focus. Arthur was suspended, shadowless, in the light, which seemed to flow around him like an uphill waterfall interrupted. Arthur was murmuring soft words constantly. Arthur was glowing. His eyes were luminous, the pupils slits and pure light, white-gold rather than black. Arthur's ears were pointed and pierced, his eyes were lined and his temples tattooed with black spiral and knot designs. He looked overall otherworldly. However these were just details.

Arthur had translucent green butterfly wings about a foot taller than his body extending from his shoulder blades. The wings were the texture of stretched silk and transparent enough to see the trees of the other side. They were outlined in black and had gold Celtic knots, and strange spirals and triskellion designs in gold just inside the outline. From the centre of the wings, beginning at his shoulder blades, tendrils of gold smoke-like patterns were diffused across the surface.

_Arthur is…_

_Arthur is a…_

His brain backfired a couple of times before supplying him with that word.

_Faerie._

..:.:.:.{**III**}.:.:.:..


End file.
